No Distance That Could Hold Us Back

Dear No One in Particular,

(source)

There's something about New Year's that seems to jolt everyone into a sense of self-improvement. I understand it: the symbolism of opening up a fresh calendar, a new start on life with the start of a new year, etc. I'm certainly not immune to it. My resolutions list reads like a stereotype: get a new, more fulfilling job; make a healthy dinner every night; read more books, watch less television. And at the top of the list: lose weight.

I read a lot of wonderfully written self-acceptance blogs, most notably Chicken Soup for the Dorky Soul and Average Fantastic. Heck, I've written posts on self-acceptance myself! But I can't say that I don't occasionally feel a bit hypocritical when I finally admit that, no, I don't really accept my body for what it is.

True, I still hold out hope that fat-phobia will go the way of the dodo bird, but I'd be a liar if I said that I didn't hope that my body fat went extinct with it.

At the end of the day, I still see my body as under construction. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain; the figure you see before you is being renovated.

Sure, a lot of this is stemming from the fact that I'm getting married (yes! The Boy is now officially the Fiance!) and the notion of taking tons of pictures in a white dress is making me break out in cold sweats. Yet, I can't help but entertain the truth that, for all my bravado, this is just an out for all my neuroses.
I'm incapable of viewing my body with a neutral eye. I see every inch of scarred skin, dimpled thighs, hair, crooked teeth, and curves upon curves -- all with a laser-focus that sends warning bells off in my mind.

Laura, of Ruby Bastille and Average Fantastic fame, recently wrote about cosmetic changes vs a message of body acceptance, a topic I've wrestled with myself. Does changing your appearance, however drastically, signal to the rest of the world that you were never really pleased with your body to begin with?

In my mind, self-confidence is the very root of self-acceptance. You can't have one without the other. Laura pointed out:

my self-confidence was suffering, therefore affecting the rest of my appearance. Not wanting to smile morphed into not wanting to be noticed, because I didn’t want anyone to notice that I wasn’t smiling. Not wanting to be noticed just felt gross.

I find my body displeasing, therefore I have poor self-confidence. I have poor self-confidence, therefore I am not pleased with my body. It's a vicious cycle that needs to stop.

If admitting you have a problem is the first step on the road to recovery, then my journey has begun. I'm not sure where, exactly, it will lead me or how long this adventure will take. I do know that I only have one resolution this year: to be happy with myself, just the way I am.

--amanda

More to Love

Dear No One in Particular,

You've probably heard about this absolutely disgusting "fatties r gross LOL" tirade on Marie Claire's website, if not read it and known what it feels like to have FLAMES. FLAMES ON THE SIDES OF YOUR FACE.

There is so much to talk about -- so much hate to cut through I almost need a machete -- I think I'll have to start at the headline. Because yes, darling reader, even the headline manages to be an offensive, judgment-laden fat joke. "Should 'Fatties' Get a Room? (Even on TV)" Honestly, it's like they're TRYING to create controversy!

And let me point out that for one hot minute, I actually thought that this might be a ploy to get pageviews. A horrible, condescending, inhuman, simply revolting act played out by a desperate internet troll masquerading as a journalist to increase traffic to her blog. Surely, I thought in my one hot minute of clutching-at-optimistic-straws, no one can be this thoughtless; could be so lacking in self-awareness; so stupid as to write this in all earnestness.

But, of course, I was wrong. Silly rabbit.

Silly, chubby, revolting, nauseating, obese rabbit monster.

I know I'm wrong because I encounter women like Maura Kelly all day, every day.
It doesn't matter what size I am (as if dress size were a true indicator of health); snap judgments about my weight inevitably directly correlate to my worth as a human being. Simply looking at the actors who play 'Mike' and 'Molly' -- the bizarre, self-loathing sitcom that bore the bizarre, fat-shaming article -- are an assault to Kelly's very delicate sensibilities. Obese people wound her very soul, because they are less than human. They are visual, nutritional monsters; the atrocities committed by Mengele have nothing on "a very, very fat person simply [walking] across a room". And before you charge me with hyperbole, go back and find that quote in the article: she equates a heavy-set individual walking with a heroine junkie riding a high.

This, to me, is the crux of a "healthy" person's misguided approach to shaming a fattie into being a hottie: they see food as the enemy, as the sole cause of the repulsive "rolls and rolls of fat" being shoved in their line of vision. I will tell you right now: food is not the sole reason.

I'm about to get all SCIENCE-Y on you, so if you're still pondering how magnets work, you best move onto another blog -- but sometimes (a lot of times, actually) it's genetics. Some are genetically predisposed to be bigger individuals; it's a biological imperative based on thousands of years of evolution and genetic adaptation in response to environmental stresses, a.k.a. by science-y types: Allen's Rule. (See also [if you're into that sort of thing]: Bergmann's Rule.)
Regardless, my point stands: it's not always as simple as 'stop eating so much and exercise more'. If it were, there would be no fat people. And then who would the Maura Kellys and the MeMe Roths of the world hate on?

And for some, food is a drug. Just like most alcoholics don't drink simply because they like the taste of cheap vodka in the morning, afternoon, and night, those who bury the pain with food don't overeat because they can't say no to another bite. You can't tell a crack addict not to smoke and force them to stop through sheer force of will. You can't just tell an anorexic to have a cheeseburger. And you can't berate a fat person into losing weight.

So no, it's not something that can be easily changed, if only they put their minds to it. I can't think and hope and pray really, really hard that I'll change my DNA and suddenly have the ability to grow 5 inches and have the metabolism of a greyhound.
What can be easily changed, however, is the frustratingly horrible mindset that morons like Kelly cling to. You can not look at a person and know their health, so stop assuming that this is possible. You can, however, look at a person and not be utterly offended by their appearance. It's not an easy road, and I'm happy to give you some suggestions, like stop being pig-headed and an asshole, but you can also visit a therapist! YOU CAN DO IT!

I must admit, I feel a tinge of sadness and -- dare I say it? -- pity for Kelly. Not for the piling on of criticism she's received -- oh no, that she truly deserves -- but for the plaintive admission that she suffered (suffers?) from anorexia. Without a doubt, her history of disordered eating has forever coloured the way she views food and people who happen to have visible body fat. Her righteous attitude is certainly a hold-over from her less-healthy days; it just goes to show that pushing what you think is the proper antidote to a perceived problem is just fuel for the unhealthy fire. Plus, it makes you look like a jerk.

Ultimately, this article served its purpose. It got people to talk about the perils fat-phobia, albeit in a totally unintended way. Moreover, the article -- and the subsequent backlash -- serve to remind us that, just like you can't simply look at a person and judge their health, you can't shame people into being what you want them to be.

A sick body is a symptom of a sick mind. Let's get healthy, people, each of us in our own way.

--amanda

"Gym" comes from the Latin for "nest of neuroses"

Dear 24 Hour Fitness Employees and 'Roidy Bodybuilders:

This concerns both of you so I'm saving time by writing a single letter. So come, sit, and listen to some damn sense.

Dropping weights is against the rules of the gym. I know this because it is posted all over the place, along with all the other rules. I know the employees know this because no doubt they were the ones who had to paste the little plaques on the walls, and it's probably knowledge imparted to them during their training sessions. And I know that the bodybuilders know this because they have eyes. I'm certain they can read, otherwise how did they manage to get a gym membership?

So what gives with the dropping the weights?

I have four words for the bodybuilders: cut that shit out. Now.
Ok, that was five, but my point still stands. It's really dangerous; if you let an enormous amount of weight drop from a great height, you could shatter the weights. Some poor granny or teenager with an eating disorder could be seriously injured because you had to prove that you were the manliest man that ever manlied. Not to mention that you could totally wreck the floors, forcing the gym to shut down while they repair all the costly damage. I like my gym. I hate the one downtown; the whole building is too narrow and the cardio room is constantly flooding. If my gym is shut down because you just had to lift all 200+ lbs in the chest press machine, I will hire a donkey ride, track you down, and end it all.
I know you're oh so proud of your bulging muscles and the fact that your bicep is larger than both my thighs put together, but honestly. There is no reason for you to grunt like a warthog in heat while squatting a tour bus and then dropping the weight on the floor while roaring at the top of your lungs. Stop it. You are not Simba, and this is not Pride Rock. Common courtesty will go a lot farther than your overdeveloped trapezius.

And gym employees, don't think you're off the hook. I haven't even begun to show my rage.
I'm so sorry if doing your job is such an inconvenience, but please. I know you can hear them dropping weights. I know you can feel them dropping weights. The entire gym rattles like an elephant just jumped up and down. The first time it happened, I almost fell off the elliptical, partly out of shock and partly due to the shockwave reverberating through the floorboards.
We all know you know this is against the rules. So please enforce them. I get it -- you're afraid to incite the roid rage and damn, those men are SCARY. They could easily break you like a toothpick using their pinky finger. But for the sake of the rest of the gym patrons, do your job and tell off the obnoxious ones. It's what you're paid for.

If we follow the rules (which are there for safety, not to inconvenience you) going to the gym could be -- dare I say it? Enjoyable.

Thanks,
amanda

P.S. To the men with the overdeveloped forearms: stop. I like well-defined arms on a man as well as the next girl, but you're overdoing it. It's starting to look like your only hobby is masturbation, which is not a chick magnet, no matter what you read on the internet. xoxo

Bad Magic

Dear No One in Particular,

I have a feeling that this day has been cursed. I've never had so many strange, bad things happen in a single 24-hour time slot. My problems, let me tell you them:

• I didn't get to sleep until past 2 am. This is kinda my fault, but I'd rather chalk it up to ...
• My terrible Guitar-Hero playing neighbour(s). I live in a high-rise apartment building, and one of the assholes who lives in a 2 apartment-radius of my bedroom is a video-game-playing vampire. Seriously, I only hear them playing after 11:30 pm, as though they were confused about what, exactly, "quiet hours" constitutes. Last night, they didn't start until 1:00 am.
  
• The Boy woke up with a migraine. I felt terrible, but he's the worst patient ever. I know I complain a lot, but he really takes the cake.
  
• I, uh, nearly passed out while practicing rescue breathing. I know I shouldn't be advertising that, but I think it's funny enough to warrant a mention. Of course, it wasn't so funny when it happened ... I blame the strange kneeling position crushing my diaphragm on my poor breathing technique.
• As I was driving out of the university's parking structure, the oncoming traffic was turning too close into my lane (a really, really common occurrence. I can't tell if the lanes are that narrow, or the drivers that blind), so I cut the corner too short and scraped the hell out of my "rims". It sounded like I had just put my car into a compacter, scaring the living bejeezus out of me.
  
• Approximately 10 minutes later, I was rear-ended. Really, I was love-tapped. There was super-minor damage to my car, so it wasn't a big deal. I should clarify: I was driving to Safeway when I was rear-ended. This is important because ...
• Approximately 5 minutes after I got into Safeway, the power went out. ONLY Safeway's power went out, too, which was the spooky part. I told the Boy we had better go, since it appeared we were cursed.

We did make it home okay, but I have one major problem: mosquito bites.
I'm crazy allergic to insect bites -- when and where ever I get bitten, I have a mad allergic reaction. I once got a bite on my forearm that caused everything below the elbow to swell to double in size. When the swelling went down, a very attractive pus bubble appeared at the bite source. Allergies = helping to bring sexy back.

Yesterday, I famously decided to ignore the Boy when he warned me that the little insect buzzing around was in fact, a mosquito. The bastard apparently confused me with a free buffet and bit my feet a total of 4 times. Naturally, my body LOVED this like I LOVE reality TV, and I now can barely walk. The crowning glory: the bite on the arch of my foot, which makes it look like I've implanted an egg just under the skin. A large, red, itchy, burning, limp-inducing egg.

Sigh. I'm now doped up on Benadryl and really annoyed that my feet are so swollen and furious with me for not taking care of them, I can't get my gym shoes on.

Cursed, I tell you!

--amanda

P.S. Did you catch the premiere of MTV's Legally Blonde audition-show? Natch, I did. It's like a shriller, WASP-ier version of You're The One That I Want.

Captain's Log

Dear No One in Particular,

A short break from my Kauai vacay to update in bullet form. In the past 3 days, we have:

• Visited the emergency room once.
• Driven around the island twice.
• Eaten some amazing meals, including taro hummus (!) sandwiches and Brazilian food.
• Gotten really, really drunk.
• Gotten really, really drunk within 10 feet of Pierce Brosnan.
• Been woken up by roosters crowing.
• Met two young siblings named Phoenix and Dayton (yes, really.)
  
• Hiked 1/2 a mile of sandy beach at midday.
• and I have gotten 2nd degree burns on my feet.
  

Not exactly the relaxing beach vacation I had in mind, but it's only our 3rd day here. Then again, it's only our 3rd day here, holy God why do these things happen to us.

Tomorrow: a short trip to a lovely nearby beach, a farmer's market (and hopefully liliko'i), shave ice, and a sunset dinner with drinks. And if we see Pierce again, all the better.

--amanda

Sick day

Dear No One in Particular,

I think I pulled a muscle in my back, and it huuurts.
I feel a bit better than yesterday -- yesterday, I was in screaming pain, totally unable to find a comfortable position. I fell asleep in the wee hours of the morning, whimpering, after spending an hour with a heating pad on my back.

It hurt just as badly this morning, too. I was in tears as I left for school, the pain of walking to my car was so great.

Right now, I'm lying on my couch, watching reruns of "The Golden Girls" and "Yo Gabba Gabba!"*
I do feel better, but I'm hopped up on expired prescription-strength ibuprofen, so that might be part of the reason.

This sucks.

--amanda

*The GREATEST children's show ever. It helps to press the fast-forward button when it gets annoying.